Darwin Slept Here - Eric N. Simons [55]
The shattered rock summit rose like a giant serrated tooth, just beyond the guanacos. FitzRoy had spotted this peak from the harbor in Bahia Blanca, fifty miles away, inspiring Darwin to attempt to climb it. In his journal, Darwin described the highest part of the range as having four peaks in descending order, but I found only three—which made sense, since Cerro Tres Picos means three peaks mountain. “There are so many rocks sticking up here,” Silva later told me. “Who knows what he saw.”
A beaten-down guanaco trail led to the last ascent and then turned up into tumbled rock piles. Using my hands and knees I scaled the steep final portion and reached the top of the peak. Far below, green-brown and olive fields stretched out in a quilt across the land. The fields likely wouldn’t have been there in the 1830s, but I was confident that frustration had clouded Darwin’s opinion of the scenery. “I had hoped the view would at least have been imposing,” he wrote. “It was nothing; the plain was like the ocean without its beautiful colour or defined horizon.”
I felt like I had just one-upped Darwin (who was, by all accounts, exceedingly fit). I also felt like I’d had, for the first time, a full day that was approaching one of his full days. No people for the last several hours, and no guide. No trail to follow, just vague directions involving broken trees and creeks. A long, challenging hike with twelve miles of hiking and plenty of opportunities for teasing guanacos and studying geology. No giant city sprawled beneath me. But rather than wallow in the glory, I wanted to challenge myself further. I’d taken a taxi to the farmhouse that morning, but there was a bus stop at the highway six miles from the ranch. If I walked those six miles, rather than take a taxi, I’d have an even more Darwin-like day of exercise.
This is why, I think, I should not be allowed to make decisions from mountain peaks.
I skipped the six miles down the mountain and arrived back at the ranch house after just under seven hours of hiking. “Wow,” Silva cheered when I knocked on the door. “Did you reach the top?” She asked me about my hike, interjecting barbaro!—or “cool!”—every three or four words. “Que velocidad! Barbaro! Que velocidad! Barbaro! Y alcancaste el pico? Barbaro! Que velocidad!” She asked if she should call me a taxi. I shrugged it off.
“No thanks,” I said. “I think I’ll walk.”
Silva looked dubious. I insisted. “I’m not very tired,” I said.
I hiked away from the ranch, past beautiful farmhouses and open, golden fields. Cerro Tres Picos grew gradually smaller behind me, fading from dark gray to light brown to a hazy purple, shrinking in comparison to closer peaks until it had disappeared. After two hours I reached the highway and sat down to watch the infrequent cars pass by. The sun started to set and the sky turned pink. A fox loped through the knee-high grass, crossed the road, and disappeared into some bushes. I felt an overwhelming serenity bubbling up within me. The last bus of the day came by at 6:45, and with a triumphant smile I held out my arm and took a few steps toward the road. The bus accelerated right past me. All of a sudden it was dark, and I was nine miles from the nearest city and twenty-one miles from my hotel, with eighteen miles and 3,000 feet of climbing already logged. I no longer felt serene.
I thought about hitchhiking, but the cars became even more infrequent. At first a car heading toward Sierra de la Ventana would pass every five minutes, and then it became every ten minutes, and soon, every twenty minutes. Rather aimlessly trudging